One Night
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: Pretty much a little plotless bit of fun. Illya has concussion so he sleeps over at Napoleon's house. In the middle of the night, things heat up. Slash.


The foot under the table was the first thing that Illya felt. He looked up, startled. Waverly was sitting next to him. Napoleon was on the other side of the table, and next to him was the innocent who had been involved in this latest escapade. Ridiculously, he kept forgetting her name. Wanda, perhaps, or Shirley. Maybe it was the bump on the head he'd received early on in the mission. They had been surrounded by Thrushies and he had been clouted over the head, and he hadn't woken until they were locked up in the basement of that Thrush club. He had felt woozy ever since, but he had gone on with the mission, engineering their escape with Napoleon, then dragging that panicking woman out of the Thrush club, yanking her by her wrist, two Thrush goons chasing after them. Napoleon had asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital, but he was used enough to getting knocked over the head.

The dinner was at Waverly's insistence, after both he and Napoleon had chivalrously asked that simpering woman out at exactly the same moment. Illya had been looking forward to getting home, perhaps sinking into a hot bath for a while, then retiring to bed with a book. Perhaps not with a book. His head was pounding. But when Waverly suggested they all go for dinner together, there was nothing he could say. He didn't feel like eating. He felt distinctly nauseous. But it was more an order than a suggestion, so here Illya was, eating scallops in white wine sauce and not feeling like it at all.

Then there was the foot against his leg, sliding gently up and down. He almost dropped his fork. He looked up, startled. Wanda or Shirley or Patsy was just sitting there eating her boeuf bourguignon. Napoleon was concentrating on steak. Waverly was cutting some meat from his butterfly chicken.

Illya blinked and turned his attention back to his meal. Really, he had no interest in that woman. It was Napoleon and Waverly who had wanted to take her out to dinner. She wasn't attractive in the least, or not to him, at any rate.

' – don't you think, Illya?' Napoleon asked, and he looked up.

'Sorry, I didn't quite catch that,' he replied. The foot was still touching his leg, still now, warm through his trouser leg.

'I was just saying to Andrea that in the language of love, it's touch which is the runaway winner,' Napoleon said. 'You can quote poetry and woo a woman with gifts, but it's when you touch her that you make your feelings really clear.'

'Oh,' Illya replied.

Andrea. So that was her name. He'd have to try to remember that. He looked across at the woman and saw that she was favouring Napoleon with a besotted gaze. But – that foot was still on his leg, softly stroking again. Suddenly he realised whose foot it was. It was Napoleon's. It had to be. Napoleon had slipped off his shoe, and was stroking his leg. Andrea may have been gazing at Napoleon, but Napoleon's eyes were only on Illya.

'I – er – Yes, I suppose touch is the most sensuous of – the senses,' he said rather awkwardly. He wasn't quite sure how to think. _Napoleon_ was playing footsie with him under the table?

'Mr Kuryakin, are you quite all right?' Waverly asked, putting his fork down on his plate. 'You've hardly eaten.'

'I – ' He glanced at his boss, hoping he wasn't flushing. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'That blow to the head. I'm not at my best.'

Waverly looked at him critically. 'Perhaps the best place for you would be bed, young man,' he said. 'Mr Solo, you've almost finished your main. Would you do me the favour of escorting Mr Kuryakin home?'

'I would be delighted,' Napoleon said, sounding as if he meant every word.

Illya looked down at his half eaten dinner. He really didn't feel like finishing it off. No doubt Waverly would be quite happy to be left alone with Andrea, who was very pretty and very blonde and not much else.

He pushed his plate back a little and dropped his napkin beside it.

'I'm sorry to drop out so early,' he said with a little smile towards Andrea. 'I could do with an early night.'

Napoleon had both shoes on when he stepped around the table. They were slip-ons, easy to take on and off.

'What was all that about?' he asked Napoleon in a low murmur as they left the restaurant.

'I beg your pardon?' Napoleon asked innocently.

Illya regarded him, confused. 'That _was_ your foot I felt under the table? You didn't mistake my legs for Andrea's. You certainly weren't aiming for Waverly – were you?'

Maybe the head injury was making him imagine things. Suddenly he felt horribly uncertain. _Had_ it been Napoleon? Surely Andrea's foot couldn't have reached him, not at that angle.

'Ah, that,' Napoleon said. 'Well, I thought you were looking distracted. I wanted to get your attention.'

'Oh,' Illya said. Then he frowned. 'Couldn't you have just called my name?'

'I did, about three times.' Napoleon tapped a hand on his arm, then kept it there. 'Come on. The car's this way. Don't you remember where we parked?'

'Oh, of course,' Illya murmured, following the slight nudge of Napoleon's hand.

Napoleon stopped him on the cool pavement and regarded him. 'Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital? Get that bump checked out?'

'No, it's all right,' Illya assured him. 'I've been hit over the head so many times I think I'm immune.'

'You can't be immune to concussion,' Napoleon told him seriously. 'But all right, I'll take you home, keep an eye on you overnight. Do you solemnly swear to tell me about any symptoms?'

Illya sighed. 'I solemnly swear,' he said.

((O))

They were getting out of the car when Illya looked around and said, 'I thought you were taking me home?'

'I am,' Napoleon told him. 'I'm taking you to my home. I prefer my own bed to your spare.'

'What if I prefer my own bed to _your_ spare?' Illya asked darkly, but Napoleon's spare bed was luxurious, and Napoleon knew he loved sleeping in it.

'Then you're a masochist. Come on in. We'll have a nightcap. I'll fix you something to eat that's a bit easier than scallops. You'd like that, huh? I'll make you some cheese on toast.'

'That does sound better,' Illya admitted.

He felt decidedly queasy, and the simplicity of cheese on toast sounded just fine. He followed Napoleon in through the main door and over to the elevator, where he leant against the wall as it hummed upwards. By the time he was sitting in Napoleon's kitchen eating the thick toast and melted cheese his hunger was fighting uneasily with the nausea, and he ate in small bites, taking long breaks between each.

'You know, if you throw that up I'm going to have to take you to the hospital,' Napoleon warned him.

'I'm not going to throw it up,' Illya assured him. He swallowed hard. He was determined not to be sick.

'Okay,' Napoleon said. He wasn't eating, but just sipping at a glass of whiskey, having told Illya on no account was he to touch alcohol with concussion. Illya didn't feel like it anyway. The glass of cool water he had was perfect.

He finished the toast and wiped his mouth and pushed the plate away.

'More?' Napoleon asked him.

'No, thank you,' Illya replied. 'No, that was plenty.'

'Let me have a look at that bump,' Napoleon said, scraping his chair as he stood up, then coming round to gently part the hair on Illya's head to examine where he had been hit. 'Hmm, you've still got something of a turkey egg there. Tender?' he asked, poking it.

Illya hissed. 'Of course it's tender. What did you expect? The man hit me with the butt of his gun.'

'Skin's not broken, but it's one hell of a bruise.'

'Thank you, Dr Solo,' Illya said dryly. 'If you've finished, can you stop poking me there? It's quite painful.'

'You want me to get you some ice to put on that?'

'No,' Illya said. He felt tired, and he didn't want to go to the effort of holding an ice bag on his head. 'No, I'd quite like to just go to bed, thanks.'

'I've got a spare pair of pyjamas, if you want them,' Napoleon offered.

'I'll be all right. It's warm,' Illya replied, so Napoleon shrugged and let him go.

He was lying under the covers staring at the ceiling when Napoleon came in wearing pyjamas, carrying two cups.

'Cocoa,' Napoleon told him, putting the mugs down on the bedside table. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and Illya moved across a little to give him room. He watched Illya as he picked up the mug, took a sip, and put it down again.

'I'm all right, I promise,' Illya said, trying not to sound impatient. 'I don't need a twenty-four hour nurse.'

'Well, I'm no nurse. How about a friend?' Napoleon asked.

Illya rested his head into the softness of the pillow. It felt good, just cradling his head enough without pressing on the throbbing bruise. The whole bed was comfortable, the sheets crisp and clean, the covers soft and just warm enough over his naked skin.

'All right,' he said. 'A friend is good.'

Napoleon reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. His fingers felt soft. They always felt soft, despite the roughness he sometimes put his body through. He used hand cream, Illya knew. He had seen it in Napoleon's bathroom. There was always a slight scent of that cream about him.

'I thought I'd stay in here a while,' Napoleon said. 'You may not be telling me how you feel, but I can tell you're nauseous and I can tell you're dizzy. I'd like to keep my eye on you.'

Sometimes Napoleon's gaze felt as though it were sinking right through him; not in a painful way, but like the heat from a smouldering fire. It felt like that now. Perhaps it was the fact that he did feel a little dizzy and sick, and that he was tired, but he felt as he lay in that bed as if he were being struck by the heat of the sun.

'Sorry,' he said after a long moment. 'I'm tired. I'm not a great conversationalist.'

'I don't need a great conversationalist,' Napoleon assured him. 'Andrea was a great conversationalist. She never stopped conversing. I get tired of conversing, sometimes. Sometimes I just want to be with someone where I can drop all the fronts, and just – be.'

'Well, you can be with me,' Illya murmured.

He wasn't quite sure what made him move further over in the bed to make space for Napoleon, but he did. Maybe it was because he knew how serious head injuries could be, and he didn't want to be alone. Maybe it was because he felt like he needed someone with whom he could drop all the fronts, and just be. But wordlessly he moved over in the bed, and wordlessly Napoleon slipped in alongside him, just like he did on countless missions when they could only get a room with a double bed. It was a comforting feeling to have the weight of Napoleon there next to him in the bed. The feel of him and the scent of him were so familiar it was like being with himself.

'If Andrea was so annoying, why did you ask her to dinner?' Illya asked after a while.

Napoleon was silent for a moment, as if he were sleepy. Then he said, 'I don't know. Habit, I suppose. That's what we do, isn't it? We complete the mission, we ask the girl to dinner. It's – a courtesy, I suppose.'

'Oh, is that what you call it?' Illya murmured. 'I thought you just wanted to get laid.'

Napoleon laughed. 'Well, there's an attraction in that too,' he said.

'Mmm. Of course,' Illya replied.

Napoleon turned on his side, and the bed shook a little.

'Illya, you must feel that need too,' he said, sounding more than curious, almost defensive. 'You're a man like the rest of us. You do _have_ an interest in all the girls that come our way, don't you?'

Illya mused on that. He had never thought of himself as frigid or uninterested, but next to Napoleon he was a man of ice.

'I do, I suppose,' he said. 'Few people have quite _your_ level of drive, Napoleon. My head can be turned by an attractive person, of course. But without a mental connection I don't feel like there's much there. I don't get the same reward if we're not on an intellectual parity.'

Napoleon snorted softly. 'Do you find many people on an intellectual parity with you, Illya?'

'I suppose not,' Illya said quietly, rather regretfully. 'That's why I like spending time with you.'

'Me?' Napoleon echoed. 'Illya, I'm no quantum physicist.'

'You don't need to be a quantum physicist. I understand that different people's intelligence is directed towards different things. People have talents in different areas.'

'Oh,' Napoleon replied. His voice was very quiet in the dim room. 'Well, I'm glad that you think I'm on your level, Illya. I've read through your résumé. I know what I'm up against.'

Illya chuckled. 'You're not up against anything. All you're up against at the moment is my body.'

It was true. Napoleon was very warm alongside him. It was a good feeling. His head ached and even lying down he felt a little dizzy, and Napoleon was a solidity that made him feel as if he couldn't fall.

'Thank you for being here, Napoleon,' he said after a little while of silence.

'Any time,' Napoleon replied. 'If your partner doesn't watch out for you, who will?'

No one, Illya thought. Not here, anyway. He had few friends here, some acquaintances, and work colleagues. Napoleon, really, was the only person who would always be there when he needed him.

'You should go to sleep,' Napoleon told him.

'It's still early,' Illya replied.

'Maybe so, but you're tired. It's been a very, very long day.'

It had been a long day. They had been up before dawn, and covered so many miles and been through so many things that it seemed impossible that this was the evening of the same day. All the same, it felt too early to sleep. He wondered if Napoleon had any books that he would want to read, but he dismissed that idea quickly. His head ached too much for reading.

He turned his head a little to look at Napoleon. His face was shaded, with the light on the nightstand a warm glow behind him. He looked more relaxed like this than at any other time. Napoleon always looked ready to move; not necessarily to fight or run, but to stand up and greet a friend, to bestow one of his warm smiles, to reach out a hand. Right now he looked so relaxed and so utterly unguarded that it was like seeing through to the real person beneath his facade. He thought of what Napoleon might have looked like as a much younger man, with the same black lock of hair falling over his face, and fewer lines traced on his skin. They had been through decades worth of excitement in their few years working together. It hadn't made Napoleon look old, but it had imparted a maturity to his face that might not have been there otherwise.

'What made you choose it?' he asked.

'Huh?' Napoleon replied.

'Why did you become an agent? What made you decide?'

'Oh.' Napoleon smiled, his eyes drifting a little as if he were thinking back. 'I don't know. I was just out of Korea. I got a good taste of excitement out there, learnt to handle a gun. I killed my first man there. Then I came back and – Well, I guess home seemed pretty dull.'

'So you were looking for excitement,' Illya mused. 'Well, you got it.'

'What about you, Illya?' Napoleon asked. He had brought his hand up under his head, and his eyes were bright with interest.

Illya shrugged. 'I was recruited while I was at Cambridge. I wasn't particularly eager to return to the Soviet Union and live out my days being told what to research by the government. Excitement, like you. Stability. The feeling that I might be able to do some good in the world.'

'And all the women,' Napoleon said.

Illya laughed. 'I didn't imagine an agent's life to be one surrounded by attractive women, I must say. I imagined there being very few women indeed. Like I said, I don't connect with people just because of their looks. There needs to be more.'

'And – men?' Napoleon asked cautiously.

Illya regarded him. The openness in his eyes had retreated a little. Napoleon was nervous. He knew him so well.

'I did expect there to be a lot of men in this business, of course,' he said.

'I don't mean it like that,' Napoleon said, and his voice was soft, but still cautious. 'Do you – connect with men, Illya?'

It was obvious what he was asking. The nervousness was clue enough.

'If you're asking if I find men attractive, Napoleon – ' He hesitated, feeling as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff. He could be honest, or he could carry on shielding a part of himself from his closest friend.

'Yes, I am,' Napoleon said. 'I'm asking if you find men attractive.'

'I find minds attractive,' Illya said. Then he breathed deeply, exhaled, and said, 'Yes, I do, Napoleon. Often more attractive, physically, than women. There still has to be a mind I'm interested in, but – '

He stopped abruptly, wondering why on earth he had just made that confession. It was such a deep, secret thing. There were so few people he had ever trusted with that truth.

'It's all right, Illya,' Napoleon said quickly, reading his expression. He reached his hand up and touched it to Illya's cheek. His fingers felt cool against the heat of Illya's face. 'I would have thought you could guess where I stand on the matter.'

Illya regarded him across the small space between them. Napoleon was still on his side, his hand between his head and the cotton pillowcase, acting like a little cradle to hold it up so he could properly see Illya's face. His other hand was still on Illya's cheek.

'I – don't know,' Illya said, suddenly feeling very foolish. 'I don't know, Napoleon. I've never thought about it.'

Napoleon's smile was a brilliant thing. Even when it was just a slow, soft smile it lit up his face.

'Illya, I don't give a damn what sex a person is. Girls are wonderful. God, girls are – ' His gaze became abstracted again. 'Girls are heavenly. And guys are like the best temptation Satan could ever think of. They're very different, but what's life without variety?'

'I – ' Illya began.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know why he had never thought about it before. Napoleon showed enough signs that he was interested in guys too. He often looked at them in the same way as he looked at girls. Napoleon was interested in sex. Of course he didn't care so much what container it came in.

'Well, this has been – illuminating,' Illya said.

He was still grasping for what to say, and those were the only words he could think of. It was illuminating, but his head ached fiercely, and he felt as if he needed time to process what he had revealed to Napoleon, and what Napoleon had revealed in turn.

Napoleon's hand moved from his cheek then, just slowly enough that it was a stroke rather than a simple withdrawal.

'Go to sleep, Illya,' he said. 'Get some rest.'

((O))

He woke later in the night, his head aching, momentarily confused. The feelings and scents around him weren't the scents of home. He lay there, looking up at the indistinct ceiling above him. Somewhere outside a light was flashing slowly, on and off. Gradually it came back to him. He was sleeping at Napoleon's place. He was in his spare bed. The warm weight next to him on the mattress was Napoleon.

He must have been dreaming, although he could remember nothing of a dream. His cock was standing up hard from his groin, pressing up against the sheet and blanket over him. It was aching with its fullness, and the heavy press of the covers was a comfort against the soft skin. He thought about getting up to go to the toilet, but he didn't want to move and wake Napoleon. He didn't want to get out of bed, because his head ached and he was comfortable and warm where he was.

He thought about what Napoleon had said to him. Napoleon's foot stroking up and down his leg under the dinner table last night. Napoleon putting his hand on his cheek, stroking his hair from his forehead. Napoleon was always touching him in little ways, a hand on his arm to usher him through a door, lingering a little longer than usual. A finger brushing back the hair at his temple. A hand on his face, cupping rather than just touching. Hadn't there been so many signs?

He could just make out the lines of Napoleon in the dim room, becoming clearer as that light outside flashed, fading as the light faded. He could see the shape of his head, the silhouette of his nose, the length of his body under the covers. One arm was flung up above his head as if he were too hot. His arm was naked. He must have taken his pyjama top off after Illya had fallen asleep.

Illya moved his leg sideways a little, cautiously, until his toes touched Napoleon's leg. His pyjama trousers were still on. That touch was enough, though. Napoleon woke instantly, as alert as if they were on a mission.

'What?' he asked. The light through the window caught his eyes as he blinked. 'Illya? You okay?'

'Yes, I'm fine,' Illya said quietly.

Napoleon was reaching out and turning the bedside light on. The warm amber glow filled the room, pushing darkness back to the edges, and Napoleon turned back to look at Illya.

'Your head's okay? You haven't been sick, have you?'

'No,' Illya said. 'No, nothing like that. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.'

Napoleon blinked and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He looked Illya up and down, and then noticed the bulge in the covers over his groin. It wasn't easy to hide something like that under a blanket.

'Ah. Dreaming?' he asked.

There had been plenty of moments like this before, when they had shared beds. One or the other of them often woke up with morning glory. They usually ignored it or made a joke about it, and moved on. Tonight, Illya felt unaccountably self-conscious.

'I don't know,' he said. 'I don't remember.'

Napoleon turned onto his side, just as he had been when Illya had fallen asleep. There was that feeling of being bathed in a warm glow again. Napoleon was looking at him, just looking, but Illya found it hard to return the gaze.

'Illya,' Napoleon said softly.

Napoleon moved under the covers, reaching out his arm. Then there were blood-warm fingers just touching Illya's cock. They hesitated a moment, long enough for Illya to say something, long enough for him to move away. It was just his fingertips touching, very lightly. Illya didn't move, or say anything. The fingers curled around the hardness of his cock, warm and strong, gripping with a firm confidence. The feeling was so good, so comforting, that a little noise choked in his throat. He wanted to move in that grip, and he didn't quite dare. He just lay there, feeling the strength of Napoleon's hand touching him. It was such a good thing to feel.

'All right?' Napoleon asked simply, and Illya said, 'Yes.'

Napoleon's hand started to move, his fingers exploring what he held, softly and gently. Illya felt the fingertips tracing his hard length, feeling the blood-filled veins, touching the soft cowl of skin at his tip. The hand moved down again, right down to where the shaft stood up from his body, tracing the soft, stiff-haired skin above, and then the cool, slack skin of his balls. Illya shivered as those fingers moved, stroking the ovoid contours, feeling one ball and then the other, and then moving back to the hardness of his shaft.

Should he reach out to Napoleon? He didn't know. He felt frozen by this long moment, this odd moment in the dimness of the night. He lay there and felt Napoleon's fingers close around his cock again and start to move up and down in a firm, compressing grip. He sighed, and allowed himself to move, thrusting up a little as Napoleon's hand moved down, relaxing his hips as Napoleon's hand moved up again.

Napoleon brushed back the covers then, exposing Illya to below the hips. Illya stayed still, his arms lying limp on the mattress, hardly daring to look down at his own body. It was warm enough in the room, and the uncovering didn't chill him. Napoleon moved to kneel beside him on the mattress, exploring his cock with his hands again as if it were the first time he had seen anything like this. He drew back the soft hood to reveal Illya's cock head, and saw the little glistening drop of pre-come at the slit. He touched it with his fingertip.

'Ah,' he said softly, as if this were the prize he were looking for.

With his fingertip he slipped the fluid down the seam of Illya's cock, and Illya gasped aloud. That single touch felt so good. So few of the people he had ever been with had treated him with such measured attention. His entire body felt alive with need, every nerve firing, everything centred in that hot nucleus of his pelvis.

Napoleon's mouth came down. God. Illya had to fight with himself not to just thrust. It was so hot, so wet, so soft and slick. He wanted to press himself into that hot, receptive place. Napoleon's tongue laved his cock head, and he ground out an inarticulate cry.

'Боже,' he managed to say after a moment. 'О боже...'

That seemed only to spur Napoleon on. He turned himself to sucking and licking with more force, his hand clenched around Illya's shaft and his tongue performing contortions that left Illya writhing beneath him, gasping wordlessly. His other hand was touching Illya's balls, stroking them, rolling them softly, reaching below them to massage the space beneath. Illya found himself bucking, unable to stop himself from pressing up into Napoleon's mouth, every inch of his skin alive as Napoleon's free hand roamed down the inside of his thighs, over his flat belly, up to trace around a nipple, back down to his balls again. He could feel himself coming closer and closer to the edge, the dull thumping of his headache fading into insignificance, everything focussing down to the sensation of Napoleon's heat all around his cock, and the aching in his balls that was tightening, tightening, until –

He was coming into Napoleon's mouth, coming in spurts, grinding out low, wordless cries of gratification. Everything had gone away, and there was just that feeling, that exploding feeling. The only thing in the world was that explosion of orgasm, and Napoleon's mouth hot and still around him.

Everything came back. He was lying on the bed, his head throbbing, his cock softening in Napoleon's mouth. It slipped meekly from between Napoleon's lips as if it had never been hard at all. Napoleon swallowed and then turned his eyes on Illya.

It was the heat of the sun all over again. There was such a look of all encompassing love in Napoleon's eyes. Illya could hardly move. It was as if his spine had been undone, each vertebra lying separate and loose on the bed. He saw that Napoleon's pyjama bottoms were tented at the groin, his own cock hard beneath them. He moved a hand a little towards him, then dropped it back to the mattress.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured. 'I don't think I can move.'

Napoleon grinned. 'Well, that's a compliment if ever I heard one. Don't move, Illya, you don't have to move.'

'You – Napoleon, I – ' He felt incoherent. Napoleon had stolen his ability to speak. 'You're hard,' he said finally.

Napoleon glanced down at himself. 'Well, yes I am,' he said, smiling. 'Do you blame me?'

'No,' Illya said. 'No, I – '

He lay looking at Napoleon for a little while, just considering. He hadn't gone to sleep expecting to wake up and have this happen. He had read the signs, but he hadn't expected anything to happen at all. Now, it just felt so right. He might have expected some kind of embarrassment or regret to surface, but it just didn't come. He lay there looking at Napoleon, feeling as though they had just come to a natural point, as if he were always going to wake up from sleep one night and Napoleon was always going to give him the most blisteringly hot oral sex he had ever experienced. It had happened, and it was right.

He let his legs loosen and fall further apart.

'Come on,' he said softly.

Napoleon turned his head a little on one side. 'Come on?'

'I want you to fuck me,' Illya said plainly. 'You've done it before like this?'

'Ah – Yes, I have done it before like this,' Napoleon said, a little smile on his lips. 'And you've done it like this before?'

'A couple of times,' Illya nodded. 'Yes. A couple of times. I know how to do it, and I _want_ to do it. I want you to fuck me.'

'Hold that thought,' Napoleon said softly.

He trailed his fingers softly down Illya's chest, then got up from the bed and disappeared from the room. He came back a moment later with something in his hand. He nudged his pyjama trousers down his hips, as he stood there on the carpet. The trousers slipped down, and Illya bit in breath as his hard cock was set free. He had never quite seen Napoleon like that. It wasn't something they had advertised before, even when they had woken with morning glory.

He kept the sound he wanted to make inside. He didn't want Napoleon to hear it, and laugh. But he wanted the hardness of that thick, blood-darkened cock. He wanted it so badly. He closed his eyes, because for a moment it was so strange to see Napoleon standing there like that, naked and aroused, with that need in his eyes directed towards his partner.

Napoleon kicked the pyjama trousers off from around his ankles, and left them on the floor. He came to kneel on the bed again, the mattress depressing beneath him. He dipped his fingers into the jar he held, and brought them out glistening.

'All right,' he said, and he sounded uncharacteristically nervous.

'It's okay,' Illya said, meeting his eyes.

He had looked into Napoleon's eyes many times, but he had never felt as naked as this before, never feeling as if he saw so deeply. He brought his legs up, bending his knees, letting them fall apart so he was open on the bed. Napoleon came to kneel between his legs. He reached out a hand and stroked softly over Illya's belly, over his lax, damp cock, over his balls. Then he touched between Illya's legs with his other hand, with the vaseline already on his fingers. A single finger touched that exquisitely sensitive opening, and shivers ran through him. God, it had been a long time since he had done this. It had been such a long time.

He let his legs drop further. The finger touched, pressed, slipped into his body. It was cool in the heat of him, slipping deeply inside in a firm glide that made him sigh aloud. Napoleon's other hand stroked over his cock, his finger moved inside him, and little electric currents ran through the pit of his abdomen, shivering through him, centring him entirely on that one place in his body.

Napoleon was pushing another finger in, stretching him with utmost gentleness, stroking fingertips over his balls. He bent and left kisses on Illya's hips, on his flat stomach, on the lines of his ribs. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, and bit lightly, and Illya clenched on the fingers inside him, and Napoleon laughed softly.

'Are you ready?' he asked, his breath soft and warm on Illya's skin.

'God, I'm ready,' Illya promised. 'I have never been more ready.'

Napoleon kissed him on his chest. The fingers withdrew, and Illya half-sobbed at the loss. He wanted that feeling again, that stretching, full feeling inside his body. But Napoleon was smoothing the vaseline down the tight hardness of his cock, making it gleam in the light. He positioned himself over Illya, and pressed the head of his cock to that yearning hole. There was a moment of pain, but then he was sinking further in, and the feeling rushed to Illya's head like pure oxygen.

'God,' he said. 'God, why have we waited so long for this?'

Napoleon touched a single finger to his lips, shushing him. He bent himself forward, buried deep in Illya's body, and kissed his lips. This was the first time they had ever kissed. Illya let his lips part, flicked his tongue forward, tasted the depths of Napoleon's mouth and the taste of himself inside. They were joined at the hips, joined at the mouth, and it felt perfect. Napoleon flexed, withdrawing his cock a little and then pushing in again, and Illya moaned against his lips at the beauty of the feeling.

He lay beneath Napoleon, reaching up his arms to trace his fingers over smooth skin and muscle, raking through his hair, tracing the line of his cheekbone. He had never felt him like this. He was like a beautiful animal, his muscles working, dewed with sweat as he thrust against Illya's body. Illya just wanted him there inside him, pushed his hips up every time Napoleon withdrew, to hurry him back inside him. The feeling was so perfect. Napoleon kept dipping his lips to kiss Illya's mouth, and Illya tilted his chin up to meet his lips, tasting him and tasting him, feeling that exquisite push and withdrawal between his legs which set every nerve alight. It was more than he could take, more than he could bear. His mind was on fire with the sensations inside him. Napoleon's breath was hot over him, coming faster and faster as he moved his body faster, until they were both crying out aloud, until Napoleon thrust fiercely into Illya's body one last time, and came.

He butted a little more, softly, tiredly, as if he didn't want to stop, as if he always wanted to stay harboured inside Illya's hot flesh. Then he let himself down over Illya's body, resting down along the length of him, his sweat-beaded chest against Illya's, his lips tiredly kissing the line of his jaw.

'Christ,' he murmured, and Illya felt the vibration of his voice through his ribs into Illya's own. 'Illya...'

'Shush,' Illya said softly, using a single finger to stroke a damp few strands of hair from Napoleon's forehead. He could still feel Napoleon in him, hard but softening. He didn't want to lose that feeling inside him, but there was nothing to be done. He lay there and felt the reality of Napoleon all along him instead, the weight of Napoleon on top of him.

'Why did we wait so long?' he asked again.

'It doesn't matter,' Napoleon replied. He was out of breath. 'We're here now.'

He slipped gently from on top of Illya to lie beside him, an arm over his chest, his head nestling close against his shoulder. Illya felt so tired, so satiated, warm and complete.

'How's that head?' Napoleon asked.

'Do you know, I forgot about it entirely for a while,' Illya said with a sleepy smile. 'It feels as though there were a tiny man in there with a very big drum, but I forgot about it for a while.'

'I'm going to call into work tomorrow and tell them I'm staying here to watch you,' Napoleon said. 'If Waverly kicks up a fuss I'll direct him to medical. I'm sure it'll cost accounting more for you to spend the day in medical than for me to take the day off.'

'Mmm,' Illya said contentedly. 'You're going to spend all day with me?'

That felt like a very good idea. He wouldn't be allowed out in the field anyway, so soon after concussion, with the ongoing mission ended.

'I'm going to lock the door, and take the phone off the hook,' Napoleon promised. 'I'll light the fire and we can spend the entire day on the couch – or in the bed.'

'Except for eating,' Illya interrupted.

'Never fear that I won't feed you. You can lie on a bearskin rug and I will feed you morsels from my fingertips.'

'Cutlery,' Illya said. 'I can use cutlery.'

Napoleon chuckled. 'All right. We can sit at a table and you can use cutlery, but between meals we will stretch out in front of the fire like two contented cats, and I will see if I can make you purr. We'll get take out for dinner. We'll dim the lights and eat by candlelight.'

'You will not recite poetry to me,' Illya said firmly. 'I'm not one of your girls.'

Napoleon laughed again then. 'No, I could never mistake you for one of them, Illya. If I recite poetry to you it will be poetry that fits you perfectly. It will be about fire and ice.'

'No poetry,' Illya insisted, turning his head and kissing lightly along Napoleon's collarbone. His body felt boneless, but he wanted to pull himself back together, grasp back the ability to move, and start exploring this new land that Napoleon was offering him. He didn't want to wait until tomorrow.


End file.
